shallura week 2017
by thir13enth
Summary: one-shots for shallura week 2017
1. oriented x 3

_—for shalluraweek, day one: time; space._

* * *

 **oriented x 3  
** _sometimes, it's just the right person in the right place at the right time.  
(space cops au)_

* * *

Even many years later, his blue-and-green planet Earth never lost its charm.

Shiro tries to peer closer at his home planet, but almost bumps his nose into the window glass. He frowns slightly, suddenly feeling a little homesick.

After all, it's been quite a while since he's been back anywhere close to Earth. It would have been one thing of his chief had assigned him permanently at Earth's police space station, but for the past few years, Shiro was shuffled back and forth across the galaxy and many light-years away from his hometown on Earth's crust.

Today is his first day stationed back on Earth since half a decade ago. He is most certainly going to take up as much of the view as he can while he has it.

"Beautiful, huh?" a voice asks behind him.

"Yeah," he replies without looking.

And then he looks and regrets he ever did so in the first place because his tongue slips and he repeats, "Yeah, beautiful," with his wide eyes looking straight at hers like he's dumbfounded by her oval deep blue eyes and generous ivory smile.

She laughs. "First time here?" she asks him.

"No," he immediately blurts, half-stuttering because he's relieved she didn't notice his small misspeaking. "But this station's changed a lot since I've last been here." He points toward the parallel gray tracks across Earth's atmosphere. "Those power network gridlines didn't exist when I was on Earth — and that was only five years ago."

"I mean, Earth was a pretty technology-primitive planet before finally opening to the intergalactical inventory exchanges eight years ago," she says, taking a long sip from her cup and staring out the window for a while. His eyes start to wander, and he notices the three stars on her collar — indicating her rank as police captain. He tries to look over her shoulder and read her nametag from the angle he's at, but she catches him staring at her before he could see.

He ducks his eyes away but he can't help but return his eyes back to her smile.

"You're from Earth, aren't you?" she declares, almost accusatorily.

"I'm that obvious, huh?"

"Well, no," she replies, gesturing to his ears. "Just that your ears are round."

"Ah," he says, watching her turn back to the window. He only notices her pointed ears then, as well as the magenta marks on her cheeks — quite honestly the only visible signs that he could differentiate himself from whatever alien species she is.

"An Earthling," she repeats, as if testing the word on her tongue. She has an accent that reminds him of jasmine tea with the lightest amber honey.

"And what about you?" he asks, to fill the silence, but more likely because he's curious.

"Altean by blood, wanderer by nature," she tells him, as if rehearsed. She hears the pause in his voice and then turns to him with a small smile. "I could never stay in one place for too long," she confides, leaning in toward him.

He holds his thought for just a second longer before he's sure what to say. "Altea was one of the planets destroyed by the Galrans during the Great War," he says softly. "I'm sorry."

Her expression doesn't crack, but he sees her eyes assuage. "That was a long time ago," she replies, tucking a silver strand of hair behind her ear. "I suppose I haven't yet found a new place to call home."

She takes another sip from her cup, and he realizes only now that she's standing close enough for him to smell her drink — a warm cinnamon aroma that reminds him a bit of horchata. Then she looks up at him again and smiles, noticing his eyes on her mug. She raises her drink to him. "Want to try?"

His right hand reaches up to take up her offer without further thought. He's distracted by how small and round her nose is, how broad and strong her jaw is. While she exchanges the drink to his grasp, brushing hands briefly, he suddenly wishes he had used his left human hand rather than his metal one.

"Thank you," he says, before raising the cup to his lips. The drink indeed tastes like it smells — but much creamier and thicker in substance, with a light tangy acid aftertaste he doesn't expect.

"Quirple," she explains. "A beverage from planet Fresia." She looks him up and down, observing him under a quiet gaze. "How do you like it?"

"Reminds me of something I used to drink all the time on Earth," he tells her. "I grew up in California, but just along the border of the United States and Mexico." He bites his lip, catching himself. "Sorry," he apologizes. "You have no idea what I'm talking about."

She laughs softly, taking the drink back from his hand. "At least I know you'll be great company during stakeouts."

He groans at the word. "I hate that part of our job the most," he admits. "Literally just waiting around and ninety-five percent of the time you find out nothing more except when the subject uses the bathroom."

"You mean you don't like being a Defender of the Universe?" she asks him with a smirk.

He gives her a crooked smile. "Is that what they call us now these days?" He looks back to the window, mulling over the words. "Has a nice ring to it."

"At least that's how they're trying to sell our job to recruit new members," she says, turning to lean her back against the wall.

He feels her eyes on him again, and he resists trying to catch her eyes.

"So what's with this arm of yours?" she asks.

He knew she'd ask at some point about the arm. Everyone does.

"It's kinda hot," she adds.

Well. Not everyone says _that_.

He deflects a flushed smile to the ground, and then decides to tease things up a bit. "I work homicide," he lies, off the top of his head.

"Do you now?" she inquires, crossing her arms and looking at him through thick eyelashes.

He's terrible at lying. "Just missing persons."

"Well, no need to pretend about that," she tells him. "Missing persons is just as honorable and intense of a department."

He laughs breathily. "Yeah," he simply agrees.

He feels so comfortable with her that he almost slips and tells her about Matt, but then he holds his tongue, thinking that dropping a backstory about a missing team member might be much for a first conversation with a stranger.

"So what about you?" he asks instead.

"You mean what department I work for?" she replies. And when he nods, she tells him, "Homicide."

"Ah," he says. "No wonder you didn't believe me. You would have already known me if I worked the same department."

She grins. "Well even if I _was_ in homicide, our training does teach us how to detect lies."

His heart flutters when he realizes she was playing along with him. He snorts. "Clearly I didn't pick up those skills at the garrison."

"I'm sure you're a skilled officer," she assures him, tapping the stars on his collar. "They don't just give these to just anyone in the force, captain." She turns to him, putting down her mug onto the windowsill. "I just caught you off duty," she tells him, nudging him to turn toward her. "Let's have one more go."

He can't help the smile that stretches over his lips. "What do you want me to do?"

"I know you know this game," she says. "Two truths and a lie."

"So…"

"How about you start?" she suggests, her eyes twinkling. "Tell me two truths and one lie, and I tell you which statement is the lie."

He blinks, trying to think fast. He can't think as clearly when she's smiling so cutely like that.

"Okay then…" he says, in the meantime. "Okay. Got it. Two truths and one lie: Before joining the police force, I played competitive laser tag… I've had this white tuft on my head since birth… and…" he drawls, as his smile widens, "…I think you're very beautiful."

Her eyebrow arches at his last sentence. He can't meet her eyes for more than a second before becoming even more flushed.

"Well…" she says, looking a little embarrassed herself. "I can only presume that..." she thinks out loud, as she leans in closer to him. "…your white hair wasn't congenital."

She is _so_ close. He holds his breath, but then remembers he has to tell her the answer.

"You're right. It isn't," he tells her.

"I suppose that will be a story for another time," she responds, looking at him as if trying to read his history off his eyes. She inhales after a moment, straightening. "Okay then," she says. "My turn. Two truths and one lie." She thinks for a bit, and then lists, "I work protective services… and my name is Allura… and I would really like to see you again."

His eyes immediately drop to her nametag, but she covers it with her hand immediately.

"No cheating," she teases.

He's still processing the fact that he was so forward with her… and that she returned it back! Or perhaps… maybe he's thinking much too optimistically about this and she's just joking around with him again. He really hopes she's not — especially now because he can't think of anything but taking her on a date to watch the stars.

"Your name isn't Allura, is it?" he asks. His heart is beating so so fast.

She gives him a soft smile before removing her hand to uncover her nametag.

Allura, it read.

She leans in. "And I work theft and recovery," she murmurs, voice tickling his ear.

Then she withdraws, before she raises her hand to brush his bangs off to the side. Her hand continues to fall, trailing down his left arm until her fingers dangle loosely in his hand. She tucks a slip of paper into his palm, and she smiles up at him.

"Call me. I'll meet you," she tells him, before stepping away with a wink. "Just tell me a time and a space."

* * *

 **notes:** for anyone who wants to know where the title came from, in medicine, one of the measures of consciousness is if a person is oriented to person, place, and time. and well… that's relevant in this fic, i suppose.

 **thir13enth**


	2. don't be scared

_—for day two: hands; names._

* * *

 **don't be scared  
** _there's still time  
(au)_

* * *

Sometimes, he wishes days like this could last forever.

The radiant day shining down on them, smothering them in heat that not even his thin t-shirt could alleviate; the roar of the tides curling into gentle waves to tickle their toes; the soft sand shores that drag their strides; the overhanging smell of salt on their sun-kissed skin; the occasional humid breeze that never seemed to find a direction.

In fact, despite the itchy grainy feel of ever persistent sand over his calves, the breathtaking beauty of a corner between land, sky, and water never fails to relieve him.

And hand-in-hand with her, he finds no reason to complain.

Year after year, they come to the beach, because the sunsets here last the longest: a molten yellow dollop of sun sinking into the ocean, white from the reflected light, with ribbons of blush red, fire orange, and nebula pink stretching out as far into the horizon as the eye could see.

He looks at her again —the way her white flowy gown drapes wide and comfortable over her sharp collarbones and broad shoulders, every now and then teasing him with the curve of her hips; the way her large floppy straw hat hides all but the bottom half of her smile from the sun — and squeezes her hand in his.

He sees her grin widen, and she looks up at him, the brim of her hat throwing up a small breeze onto his face. "What are you laughing about?"

"I'm not laughing," he denies, but with the goofiest smile.

She rolls her eyes, entwining her fingers further into his. Then she pulls him in by the arm and lifts onto her toes to offer him a kiss. Her lips are dry and a little scratched from being outside too long, and he withdraws suddenly to lick them.

"Ew! Hey!" she exclaims, retreating and wiping her mouth as he cackles. "Don't do that!"

"Your lips needed a bit of moisturizing," he explains, as his laughter falls into a smile. He scoops her back into both of his arms, holding her close to him.

"Well there's chapstick for that," she replies, pushing away from him with her hands against his chest. "I don't need your saliva all over me."

"How about just a kiss then?" he murmurs, before leaning in to do just so.

"Hmm… fine," she hums between their lips, letting the distance close.

But his head is too large to fit under the brim of her hat, and his forehead pushes the hat off her head and into the gust.

"Ah!" She gasps, reaching out for it, but the wind carries the article of clothing further than her arm can stretch and faster than she can pounce forward.

They watch her hat fly off, dipping and rising unpredictably as it goes with the flow.

"Now look at what you did," she pouts, frowning. "My hair is going to get all over the place."

He laughs softly, using both his hands to tuck her hair behind her ears. His fingers stay at the ends of the silver curls, twirling the silver strands around his fingers. "I like it better this way," he tells her.

"It's messier," she insists.

He shrugs, wordlessly plucking a bit of seaweed from her hair.

She turns around in his arms to face the ocean, leaning back against him and holding his arms around her waist. She looks up at the sky for a long moment, and then takes a deep inhale and exhale.

He feels every catch of her breath against his chest.

"It's never the same is it?" she remarks, tilting her head up at him. "The sunset."

He presses a kiss on her forehead, his eyes rising to look up at the magenta sky and lavender clouds.

He traces the gradients with a practiced gaze. He knows all too well the shape of every cloud and the swirl of every color in the sky by now. The feathery cloud puffs that extend up like smoke from a fire, the flat straight-lined clouds that make the sky look like wrinkled satin.

He looks to the far right corner of the sky and indeed, a flock of seagulls glide through his sight, just as he expected.

"Nope," he slowly replies.

Even more cautiously, and without turning his head, he looks to the furthest left edge of the horizon, where he can just barely make out two faint straight silver lines in the sky, almost overlapping except for a very narrow space. He stares at the acute angle — and then suddenly right before his eyes, the lines snap closer.

Three minutes.

He suddenly feels water catch on the bottom of his rolled up trousers, feels the hem of her gown stick to his ankles. He looks down, and she pulls him back away from the ocean with her.

"Come on," she says, gesturing to their beach towels and umbrella just down the shore. "Don't want to get our clothes wet."

He follows along obligingly, shaking the wet sand from his feet as he walks into the shore behind her. He keeps her hand tightly in his, turning his head again to check the sky momentarily.

She feels the slow of his step and stops. "What are you looking at?" she asks him, eyes intense on him like she's read the truth off his face.

"Nothing," he says, shifting his gaze from the sky to her.

He leans in to kiss her, but she avoids his kiss. She doesn't release him from her sight. "You're looking at the clock, aren't you?"

He holds his breath. She's always been able to see through his lies.

She still can — even as a program.

"Sorry," he mumbles, looking down at their hands.

"Hey," she says, stepping closer to him. She brings both her hands into his. "Don't worry. Just focus on my hands in yours, your hands in mind."

He nods. He breathes out painstakingly slow, like he can slow time if he slows his heart.

Sometimes, he wishes days like this could last forever.

He closes his eyes.

"Okay," he replies.

He can hold the moment for as long as he can keep her hands in his, his hands in hers.

Then the warmth from the sun fades and the sound of the ocean becomes still air. The summer breeze falls apart and the blue sky collapses. The sand disappears from between his toes.

He doesn't let go.

.

.

"Mr. Shirogane?"

He doesn't reply until he's ready. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry but the sun has set. Your time is up."

He opens his eyes. He's standing in a blank empty white room again, and he's back in the present he finds so hard to escape on days like these.

On this day, really.

"I know," he says.

.

.

The receptionist knows him by his heavy footsteps and by the time of the year. She doesn't need to look up to greet him.

"Same thing as always?" she asks. She types a couple of sentences onto the desk computer, makes a couple of clicks before meeting his eyes. "Right?"

It takes him a moment. "Yes," he croaks. His throat already aches.

"I imported all the exact settings from last time."

"That's perfect."

"And no changes to the current program, right?"

He shakes his head.

The receptionist nods her head slowly, resuming her typing and clicking. She waits a moment, and then looks back at him with gentle eyes. "I'm really sorry to ask, Mr. Shirogane, but I've blanked on her name. What was it again?"

Her name? He hasn't said it in so long that he's almost forgotten how to say it.

But he thinks of his hands in hers, her hands in his, and he replies:

"Allura."

* * *

 **notes:** largely inspired by Satellite Empire's remix of Time by Hans Zimmer

 **thir13enth**


End file.
